


Paying the Price

by chains_archivist



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Boys in Chains, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic from Heero's point of view, as he pursues Duo and learns a few lessons.</p><p>By Rose Argent</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying the Price

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this [author/artist], please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).

 

Always follow your emotions. Sounds like pretty good advice, doesn't it? I just wish Odin had stuck around long enough to clarify some of the finer points for me.

Take my current situation, for example. What does one do when one's feelings are telling one to track down a certain longhaired, loud-mouthed American, pin him to the wall and say, "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?"¹ Easy answer -- go out and do it, right? Wrong. I know very little about people and society, but even _I_ know that men who have sex with other men are considered bad, or dirty, or downright evil by society at large.

Of course, you say, generally murder is also considered bad, dirty and downright evil by society at large, and you do _that_ , right? That much is true, but it's not entirely the same thing. I'm not going around and _asking_ my enemies, "Excuse me, but is it okay if I reduce you into a red smear on the pavement now?" I'm not relying on my enemies to be as bad, dirty and downright evil as I am in order for killing them to work.

Getting Duo into bed, however, _does_ require not only his permission, but his active participation. So what happens if he's, well... straight? Which is a very real possibility -- the odds are against me, here.

The safe thing to do would be to just sit tight and let him make the first move, if he is interested, or forget about him, if he isn't. Unfortunately, that's not working out so well for me. I wake up in the middle of the night, sweaty and out of breath and with the kind of erection that supposedly only exists in porno movies waiting between my legs. Though, maybe that part isn't as bad as I think. I suppose even I might have a little vanity lurking around in my head.

My solution? Research. My old friend, my battered laptop with its precious Internet connection. There is dirt on everyone out there somewhere, and I happen to be very good at finding it. Okay, so maybe searching the 'Net for dirt on the closest thing I have to a friend is not the sanest thing I have ever done but, really, I'm already sitting here with one hell of a weird internal monologue going on in my mind, so obviously the constant jerking off has caused a few synapses to misfire somewhere along the line.

I wonder if that's how Relena ended up with an imaginary friend, too.

I'll have you know that it's not easy finding dirt on someone who probably isn't using his real name and maybe even doesn't legally exist. It can be done, mind you, it's just not easy. I have no idea how long I've been at it, though judging from the way my stomach is trying to snack on my spine, it's probably been a while.

"What are you doing?"

I hastily cover the screen and I can just feel the tension knotting up my shoulders. Why, I'm searching the Internet for any and all information on you, Duo, so that I can maybe find something that will tell me whether or not I have a chance of tasting those ever-mobile lips of yours. "Working."

Funny how, somewhere between my brain and my mouth, my pithy and amusing internal monologues degrade into monosyllabic grunting.

"You're always working. Is it a mission?"

If I say it's a mission, he'll want to help. "No."

"For school, then? You know, you take schoolwork way too seriously. We're always moving from school to school and erasing our records after we leave, so what does it matter if you do really well instead of just getting by?"

He never shuts up, but he never lies, either. Fortunately, I do not have any similar compunctions. "Yes. It's for school. Extra credit report." _That_ ought to disgust him enough that he'll leave. For all of half an hour, if I'm especially lucky.

True to form, he snorts in disgust. But... "Well, you should at least eat something. Even the Perfect Soldier needs food to live."

Shit. I forgot about the Mother Hen Factor. I think they all draw straws every week to decide whose turn it is to remind me to eat, sleep and occasionally put on a pair of real pants. Well, only Duo adds that last bit. "Fine. Bring me something."

Sudden, deadly silence. Oooh, he did not like that. I'd better get up and make something myself, after all, because anything he brings me now will have spit in it. At the very least.

I take the laptop with me as I head into the kitchen. He's just pissed off enough to want to sabotage my "extra credit report."

At least, with Duo giving me the cold shoulder, lunch doesn't take long and I can get back to work within fifteen minutes. I wonder how long he'll stay mad at me for "ordering him around like a houseboy."

Twenty hours and one quick nap, one shower and two more meals later, he's still not talking to me and I've finally found something. Prison records from Colony V08744 in the L-2 chain, circa AC188-192, referencing a repeat offender known only as "Maxwell's Duo." No known family, never paid bail, multiple escapes. Sounds like my Duo, alright.

Now, what was he in jail _for_? Theft, theft, theft, grand theft auto, drunk and disorderly, theft, grand theft, solicitation, grand theft...

... Hold on, solicitation? I'm fairly certain they can't arrest a person for door-to-door sales, though it would be nice if they _could_ , so that means Duo was arrested for... prostitution?

Not quite the dirt I was expecting to find.

This raises plenty of questions, but the only one that's really important to me is: did he sell his body to women, or to men? Unfortunately, whoring is not exactly the sort of career that leaves a ton of records behind. Duo is many things, but a blazing moron is not one of them, so he probably didn't file taxes or keep an online database of his clients. Obviously, I'm going to have to go to Colony V08744, track down the guy who arrested Duo for that charge and ask him myself.

What? It's a perfectly logical idea.

*****

I hate getting blood out from under my fingernails. It's not something I have to do very often, thankfully -- I don't generally do a lot of up-close and personal killing. But that son of a bitch ex-guard... _no one_ talks about Duo that way. Even thinking about it now makes me want to hurt someone. The things he claimed to have done to Duo... even if he only actually did _half_ of them, he deserved an even slower death than he got.

So, now that I have the information that I wanted, I suppose that means it's time to do something about it. I think I'm nervous; it's not a pleasant feeling.

*****

There he is. How can anyone in their right mind _not_ want him? The way that ridiculous braid twitches as he walks inevitably draws the eye right down to his firm little ass, so inadequately concealed even by his baggy pants. His toned body... so lithe, so frighteningly limber -- I think only Trowa is more flexible than Duo. And, most fascinating of all, his face; those impossibly wide blue-violet eyes, that pert little nose and, of course, those full, expressive lips -- always smiling, always moving, impossible to ignore.

He's buried up to his elbows in Deathscythe's mechanical guts, and the intense look of concentration on his face makes my heart thump a little harder and my... damn, already? It's going to be even harder to be casual around him tonight than I expected.

I deliberately scuff my sneakers against the floor a little as I walk, not wanting to startle him by just silently appearing behind him while he's so focused on Deathscythe -- he'd probably break my nose before he realized who it was. Not that a broken nose is a big deal, but it's also definitely not much of a turn-on.

Feigning calm that I don't really feel, I casually put one hand on his right shoulder as I lean forward over his left, taking a closer look at the work he's doing on his Gundam. He freezes and turns his head to look at my hand. I wish I could see the expression on his face... his body language isn't telling me _anything_. And then he turns to face me, his nose almost bumping against mine, our faces are so close.

Slowly, giving him time to pull back if he wants to, I close that last little distance and press my lips against his. He kisses back, which is a damn good thing because I haven't the faintest idea what I'm doing, for this part. His body turns, his chest pressing against mine, and one slender arm snakes around my waist, pulling me yet closer. When our hips grind together he makes a surprised little noise and his eyes fly open, meeting mine. I'm not sure exactly what he sees that prompts it, but then his hand slides farther down my back, the tips of his fingers trailing feather-light along the undercurve of my ass.

Heat rushes through me, and my hands slide between our close-pressed chests, fumbling at the buttons of his jumpsuit. His free hand untucks my tank top from my shorts and slides up the bare skin of my back. He hits a ticklish spot I didn't know I had, I take a startled step backwards... and there's nothing but air under my foot. The kiss breaks off as we both yelp in startlement and go tumbling off the edge of the platform Deathscythe lay supine on.

The fall itself isn't so bad, but Duo lands on top of me and, light as he is, it still knocks all the air out of my lungs. Within that one instant of my stunned immobility, Duo has us both out of our clothes. Considering how many layers he wears, that's quite the feat.

But then I surprise him by tumbling him off me and onto his back, pinning him with the weight of my body. "What, Mr. Always Follows Orders is a _top_?"

My lips twitch into what might actually be a smile. "You aren't my commanding officer."

At that, he shrugs and grins and proves that he's flexible in more than one way.

The dreams just don't come close to the reality, even if reality was happening right there on the hangar floor, and the dreams had almost always involved silk sheets and queen-size beds. If anyone walked in on us, we never noticed.

Concrete floors, however, are not very conducive to snuggling, so when it's over I find that we're both picking up our scattered clothing and wobbling unsteadily to our feet before the sweat has even dried on our skin. By the time I'm back into my shorts, he's still working on the turtleneck and boxers that go under his jumpsuit. He hasn't said a word, though, and that worries me... so, nervously, I go through with the last part of my plan.

Most people wonder where I keep things in these shorts. In the case of stuff like money, there's a very simple answer to that -- I have a small pocket sewn into the inside of the waist. Slipping a few large bills out of that pocket, I press them into his hand and mumble, "It was great. Really... great."

And that's when things _really_ go awry. He stares down at the money in his hand blankly for a moment, then inhales sharply. The look that crosses his face then is the most horrible thing I have ever seen in my life -- he looks like someone just made him watch while they cut his liver out with a dull, rusty knife. Seeing that look on his face and knowing that I caused it makes my heart _hurt_ , physically hurt, and for a long moment I just stand there mutely.

This was not supposed to happen.

He looks up at me, his eyes dark with hurt, a question forming on his lips but never quite voiced. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. This wasn't part of the plan.

So I beat a hasty retreat, feeling his eyes burning into my back all the while.

*****

I'm drunk. It took a lot of alcohol to get this drunk, let me tell you -- my metabolism is several times that of a normal person's, thanks to the doc's tinkering. But, finally, I'm so blissfully smashed that I can't quite remember what Duo's face had looked like that night.

How long have I been locked up in this room, not talking to anyone? It's hard to remember, just now. But that's the point, isn't it? Still, I should be doing _something_... there are half a dozen messages on my machine -- the school, demanding to know why I haven't attended classes lately. But no missions. The one thing that might make this hurt go away... give me back my purpose... I've checked my laptop a thousand times, it seems, making sure all the connections are in good working order. I checked the modem line, too. But everything is working fine; there just... haven't been any calls.

Has Dr. J given up on me? Did he somehow hear what happened and realize, as I did, just how worthless I am? A total screw-up.

Fuck, I'm sobering up already. I can't afford enough alcohol to get drunk again, at least not without hacking into a bank account and siphoning off some money. I'm not quite so pathetic that I'd steal just to get booze. Not yet, anyway.

The laptop beeps, and I bolt for it so quickly that I knock over my desk chair. Too late, I notice that it's not a text message. It's a direct connection. Quatre's face appears on the screen, and he can see me too. I bet I look like a zombie. A drunken zombie, lurching around unsteadily, eyes glazed and confused.

I think it's even worse that Quatre doesn't seem at all surprised to see me like this. Does everyone know, then?

The self-obsessed moment fades and I notice that Quatre is pale and clutching at his arm. He's hurt. He probably doesn't have the energy left to be surprised by my decline. "What is it?" Points for me, my voice comes out steady.

"I have a mission in two days, and I don't think I'll be able to pilot Sandrock by then. My arm's broken in three places." He looks away a little, expression hardening. It bothers him to have to pass his mission off on someone else, to be unable to do it himself. There's no shame in being human, though, and I wish I could tell him that without sounding completely hypocritical. _I_ could do the mission with a shattered arm. Of course I could, I'm the Perfect Soldier.

But I bet he could get into Duo's heart as easily as Duo's bed, and without ever once hurting Duo at all. So, really, who is better off?

"Alright. Send me the specs and I'll take care of it. You take care of that arm."

He nods curtly and then his image disappears and the mission profile appears on my screen instead. Huh. It's a two-person mission... The other pilot is Trowa, which is fine. We work well together.

I have twenty-four hours to get back into fighting form, and then I need to head for the rendezvous point. No problem, mission acknowledged.

But the memory of Duo's pain is still there, lurking in a deep, dark corner of my mind. I can feel it, waiting for the mission to be over so that guilt can consume me all over again.

*****

That's not Heavyarms waiting at the rendezvous point. I'm supposed to be working with Trowa on this mission, and _that is not Heavyarms_.

It's Deathscythe.

The chest plate hisses open and Duo emerges, the winch whining slightly as he rides the line down to ground level. His eyes are like chips of amethyst -- still lovely, but hard as stone. He's going to kill me. Possibly literally.

And I won't stop him.

"What are you doing here?"

For a second I'm not sure who asked the question first, him or me. But from the wary, expectant look on his face, it was him, and he wants an answer. "Quatre called me... to sub for him on this mission." He doesn't look pleased. "I was supposed to be working with Trowa," I finish lamely.

"So was I."

They played us. Fucking busybodies... they played us. "Is there even a mission?"

I can see the same thoughts in Duo's eyes, and he shrugs stiffly. "Probably. Quatre is manipulative, but not an outright liar." There's a long silence before Duo grudgingly adds, "and he means well."

I feel so... helpless. His icy glare just locks my throat up, and even if I knew what to say it would never make it past my frozen lips.

"Why?"

God, how can he make that one word sound like a demand, a threat and a plea, all at once? But he does deserve an answer. He deserves a lot more than that but an answer, at least, I might be able to give. And then maybe he'll take pity on me and just _shoot_ me, instead of looking at me like that.

"I... found out about... your past..." The blank look he gives me makes Trowa's coolness seem like the desert sun. Okay, so he figured that part out already. "I wanted... I thought, that if I made it like... what you'd done before... you wouldn't... reject me. You'd feel... comfortable... because it was familiar..."

"Let me get this straight. You wanted me to feel comfortable?"

I nod.

"By making me feel like a whore again?"

... It seemed like a good idea at the time, okay? I nod again, much more hesitantly this time.

"You didn't mean to imply that I was just there for your use, anytime you wanted? That I was a quick fuck who didn't have the right to say no, as long as you paid me afterwards?"

I shake my head so frantically that I feel like my neck will snap. " _No_! Absolutely not! I'd never... I didn't know what else to do! I just didn't want you to feel... unsure... lost..." Like I feel.

He's just _staring_ at me like I've grown another pair of arms. "That's... that's... insane Heero-logic!"²

"I'm... sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear..."

He moves faster than I can believe, grabbing my shirt and shaking me a little, his face suddenly so close that I can feel his breath on my lips as he speaks. "But you _did_ hurt me."

"I... know." His gaze is boring into mine, hunting for something, and I still don't know what. "What do you want me to do?"

His voice is a low, calm murmur, almost felt rather than heard. "When this mission is over, you are going to read some books, and talk to some people who actually know what they're doing, and figure out the _right_ way to seduce someone. And then, I'm going to run and you're going to chase me until I let you catch me. Understand?"

To just throw away my pride and ask for help? To open my heart not only to him but to other people? To have no idea of when or even if I'll get anything in return for my efforts? That's... an amazingly high price.

And he kisses me, almost bruisingly hard. Whatever he might say about me, Duo-logic is clearly as insane as Heero-logic.

"I understand. And you're worth it."

"I know". He smiles that familiar, wicked grin and lets me go, turning his back as he wanders back to his Gundam. His braid swishes from side to side a little more vigorously than usual, and I realize that he knows _exactly_ what the sight does to me.

Let the chase begin.

~Owari~


End file.
